Mark Of Cain
by Unoriginality
Summary: Envy and Edward find some small measure of comfort in the new world.
1. Temptation Waits

**Chapter 1: Temptation Waits**

_I'll tell you something:_

_I am a wolf_

_I'll tell you something:_

_I am a demon_

He was a drug. Dangerous and toxic, exhilarating and addictive. Everything about him, the way he moved _(like quicksilver smooth and sleek)_, the way he spoke _(ice through the veins sultry a goddamn **purr**)_, even the way he smelled _(sulphur, strike of a match on the box rich and overpowering and oh god the smell of death lingering like blood)_ was toxic, poison that ate away at his soul a little piece at a time, everytime he found himself face to face with the monster, with the worst of all the sins that slowly killed the heart-

_(find myself here I always come here on **purpose**)_

-and left a heady rush in its place, a high of adrenaline and too many other chemicals for him to entirely pin them all down.

And he was so hopelessly addicted that he kept going back for more...

And more...

And more, until he felt he couldn't breathe, pinned under the weight of his Sin, lost in the cold comfort and distraction from reality and not particularly caring to be found.

_You come on like a drug,_

_I just can't get enough._

_I'm like an addict coming at you_

_For a little more_

He'd always warned Edward that playing with such a deadly poison was dangerous, that it got everyone in the end. He'd teased him with it, luring him, tempting him more with the idea, with the game he was playing, dangerous and a fine-wire walk. He'd smile toothily whenever he'd show up, tired and weary from a day spent in that farce, that facade of a world, working with that parody of his brother, wanting a place to hide, an empty hollow comfort that he found in that place.

"You're killing yourself," he snarled, backing him against a wall. "One day you won't leave."

But he always left afterwards and he always came back the next day, and he always ignored the warnings. If he were killing himself, then so be it.

He was poison, a deadly toxin that had entered Edward's system and never gone away- his lips tasted of mercury and it was a violent chemical reaction in his brain every time he moved against him- it'd lingered, carving its mark into his mind, trapping him, leaving him dizzy and breathless.

If he were killing himself, so be it. He'd picked his poison.


	2. East Of Eden

**Chapter 2: East Of Eden**

We're brothers. He's my brother, but it's easy to forget that. We never think of each other that way. There's been too much that's happened, and too many years between us for us to ever look at each other like that. I'm an older brother, he's a single child, and our shared blood is a mere technicality that is easily dismissed.

It's a cold comfort we take in each other, and wrong, our shared parentage creating a wall of taboo that should never be crossed. But it's hard to care about that taboo in our position. We're already damned, the two fallen sons, cast out of Heaven, the perfect sin and the perfect sinner, lost and alone in this darkness, this parody of our world, of our former lives.

Even the dead need some measure of comfort.

I should hate him, I realize this. This thought strikes me everytime I find myself following the long-since familiar path up to the ancient castle, leftover from days of barbarian tribes and kings, where he's taken shelter in this strange land.

I can't though. Hate him, that is. I see him and see too much of myself, I suppose. I guess it's a testament to how much I've grown up that I can face my demons, see the dark side of the mirror and not hate or recoil in fear, but... pity's not the right word. Sympathy, maybe. Understanding. Yes, understanding, that's what it is. It's a simple understanding, an acceptance of who we are and what we are and neither will look down upon the other for it.

It's a cold comfort, I think almost bitterly as I tug open the giant doors and pause, listening for a sign of welcome or a sign that this visit would be my last. It's a cold comfort, empty and numb. But it's the only thing sane in this world of machines, of faces of people I know and love, but it's not _them_. It's a farce, a sick joke and I swear I can hear God laughing at me from his Heaven somewhere.

There's a growl from within the castle, low and threatening, but I know that there's no malice in the sound and I step into the front room, turning and shoving the closed door behind me once I'm safely in. Before I can turn from the door, there's something pressing against my back, large and warm and welcomely familiar. I glance over my shoulder to see the serpentine face of the dragon body he regularly inhabits. It's difficult now for him to take other forms in this world. Probably for the same reason my alchemy won't work. Part of me wonders how long before he's stuck like this, his body as foreign to him as this world.

He nudges me again and I smile weakly, placing a hand on his snout lightly, pushing away that thought. At the contact he closes his eyes and makes a sound that I swear is a purr, but I'll never argue that with _him_.

There's a sort of magic watching him transform, watching the snake shed its skin for more pleasing shapes. It's alchemy, a pure and flawless transmutation, and in this place where even that has been taken from me, it's become a fascination to see. I wonder again how much longer he'll be able to do that before even that is taken from the wicked.

"You're _late_," he snaps once the process is complete and a man who for some reason even I have yet to fathom thinks a skirt and a middriff is any sort of fashion statement stands before me. Even in the dead of winter he doesn't give up this form, apparently unmindful of the cold air in the castle, even though I can see gooseflesh on his arms.

"Ah, sorry," I reply with an apologetic grin, putting my hands in my pockets as I start towards the inner rooms, hoping to find that they're not quite as chilly. "Classes ran late." That wasn't entirely true. Classes didn't run late, but Father had stopped me afterwards and even though there were a number of people that I know would argue the point with me if they knew where I was and why, I was not _stupid_. I was not about to mention our father to him.

He snorts in disgust as he turns to walk with me towards the inner rooms, crossing his arms over his chest. "Ran late or you didn't notice they ended?"

We enter an oversized sitting room, and I shrug out of my coat, shaking my head. "You know, there's this invention," I say, switching the subject as I toss my coat to him and walk over to the fireplace. He catches the coat and watches me with his usual wearily irritated look. "It's called fire. People use it to keep warm. Especially in the winter."

I can hear him huffing in annoyance behind me as I toss some wood and kindling into the fireplace. There's the sound of his barefooted footsteps behind me, and then my coat is dropped unceremoniously onto my head. "Ever try to start a fire with talons, Shorty?" he snaps, standing beside me as I pull the coat off and dig in one of the pockets for the box of matches I keep there.

"What, you mean you're not a fire-breathing dragon?" I ask with a smirk, beginning to nurse a fire to life.

"I'll breathe fire when you grow, brat."

This is all familiar banter, easy and routine and rarely changing much from this pattern. I reach over and smack the side of his leg lazily as the warmth from the fire slowly starts to creep through the air around it. "I'm not short. I'm as tall as you, jackass," I reply off-handedly, not pulling my eyes from the fire. It's true; I've managed to gain an inch or so since I came to this world, and it drives Envy right up the damn wall to know that unless he changes form, he can no longer look down on me.

It doesn't, unfortunately, stop him from calling me short. I wonder what exactly he's going to do when I get taller than him. Continue to pick on me, I suppose. Somehow, this doesn't exactly make my heart skip a beat.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see him crouch down next to me, watching the fire silently as it slowly warms the cold winter air in that drafty castle and we stay like that for a few heartbeats, listening to the crackle of the flames as they break down the wood and kindling and burn it for fuel. What we each see dancing in those flames we never say aloud to each other, but I suspect that neither of us have to.

A long moment passes before he slowly reaches over his hand and tangles his fingers in my hair tightly, a gesture of possession, and I turn my head to look at him. His death-darkened eyes remain fixated on the fire in front of him, but I can feel his grip tighten in my hair, sending tiny pin pricks of pain dancing along my scalp, and I hold still patiently, watching him quietly.

As soon as I feel his grip laxen a little, I lean forward and catch the corner of his lips with my teeth, biting down to command his attention and he growls, turning into the kiss and drawing blood from my lower lip as his teeth scrape against them. I lift one hand to his throat, the pad of my thumb along his pulse, the knuckle of my index finger running along his jaw as I stand, pulling him to his feet with me.

He growls again against the kiss as his tongue pushes its way past my lips and he captures my mouth fully, pushing me back towards the sofa, both of us nearly tripping over each other's feet.

Sex for us is less about the physical pleasure, though there was certainly that (and this was probably the most unhealthy way to discover this aspect of this whole growing up thing), it's about trying to fill, or at least forget about, the empty ache inside that reminds us that we're both horribly, utterly, and completely alone here. We should not exist here. There's nothing but this moment, this moment where two brothers, two enemies, two hearts gone to civil war manage to lose themselves in each other and forget the emptiness, the cold and bitter knowledge that somewhere along the line, we found our way to Hell.

Hell isn't brimstone and fire. It's ice. It's cold, impassionate, uncaring, millions of miles from home, from the sun.

I thought I'd fallen here when I tried to breach the domain of the gods and bring my mother back from the dead. Oh god, was I ever wrong. This... _this_ is Hell, this place, this entire goddamned _world_.

That's why I come here, come to him, find myself tangled up with him, mock-fighting for dominance and taking a broken sort of comfort in the company of a monster. There's no taboos here, no strange and foreign rules to abide by, no masks to hide behind because the truth can never be made known. There's just... us.

Sometimes it crosses my mind to wonder, here in that silent wake of everything, pulling my mind back to grim reality, feeling his inhuman heartbeat beneath me and his legs still wrapped around my hips, if this isn't the first time he's ever been able to just... be. Not worry about being 'right' for a father that would only abandon him for his efforts or play someone else's role so nobody would know it was him while he did that woman's work like he was little more to her than a slightly unruly dog.

I wonder, then I let the thought go. There's not really any point in worrying about it, and I'd never ask him about it, so there's no reason to entertain it.

I lift my head and look at him, my chin propped on his chest, the steady rise and fall of it from his breathing more soothing than jarring, and it doesn't take more than a few moments for him to notice me watching him and he scowls at me. "What?" he snaps quickly.

I take a second to answer that, still wrapped up in my thoughts, then shake my head slowly. "Nothing," I answer quietly, laying my head back down and closing my eyes.

'Nothing' wasn't _entirely_ a lie. There was something, too many somethings for words to ever cover. Maybe if I could master the complex equations and formulas of the art of words the way I could with chemicals and physics, I would be able to say the things that lurked just below my willingness to let them into conscious thought.

Giving voice to the thoughts, to the loneliness and the cold emptiness and that unbearably _old_ and _tired_ feeling that seeps through the skin and along every nerve... it's not really necessary. Why should it be? I can see the same things in his dark bruise eyes, and it catches my attention every time I lift my eyes from the fire to look at him.

So even if I wanted to, I don't need to actually say anything.

It's almost painful; words were never really necessary with Al, either.

Laying there in that old, drafty castle, between the fire and shared heat and blankets, a long day in an alien world fading and blurring into the background, more gets spoken then words can convey. I reach up and feel my way to his hair, tangling my fingers in it, and feel an almost-painful sensation along my scalp as he does the same in kind, and I pull myself up to his level and capture his lips again.

This is home. As close to it as either of us will likely ever get.


	3. Fall Of Enoch

**Chapter 3: Fall Of Enoch**

_"Blessed is the servant who loves his brother as much when he is sick and useless as when he is well and can be of service to him."_

When Edward shows up at the castle that rests hidden away from the world outside of Munich, Envy does not greet him.

Edward stands in the doorway, holding his breath as he listens to the air whistle hollowly through the drafty castle, listening for signs of the homunculus. Only the wind answers him.

_He'd always warned Edward that playing with such a deadly poison was dangerous, that it got everyone in the end._

This is not a dismissal, he knows that much. The sin's absence worries him; he knows that changing to his more human form burns red stones much faster than it did in their own world, though he'd tried to tell Envy not to do it once he'd figured it out. Those same red stones are what keep Envy alive, and it flits through Edward's head-

_(Impossible)_

-as he closes the door behind him, shutting out the early spring breezes, to wonder if perhaps the sin-

_(Impossible)_

-has finally died after so many centuries of being trapped in a half-life he'd never asked for.

_I wonder again how much longer he'll be able to do that before even that is taken from the wicked._

Edward walks the familiar path into the sitting room that they frequent; the fire in the fireplace has long since gone out, and even the bricks of the hearth are cool to the touch.

Following a familiar routine, Edward nurses a fire to life, occasionally glancing around, watching for Envy to enter the room and take up his role in everything, their banter, the sparse conversation, the warmth and fighting and desperate kisses and touches. Even just the sight of him would be comforting.

Envy does not enter the room; Edward remains alone.

Satisfied that the fire will not die, and will burn steadily while he searches, Edward gets to his feet, leaving his coat on the couch as he makes his way through the less-familiar back rooms and hallways of the castle. Silence lingers at every corner, only broken by the dim wheezing of the drafts and the occasional skittering of an animal that has taken shelter from the bitter cold within the castle walls.

_-it got everyone in the end._

Edward almost desperately wishes that he knew the layout of the castle better; he might be able to guess where the sin would've hidden himself so he could find him faster- however he might find him.

_Even the dead need some measure of comfort._

For a moment, Edward dismisses the sound from one of many hallways as the drafts, but it's a deeper sound, like a dragon's sigh, and the hallway is different than the others, longer with no other doors along the sides, just an elegant but simple set of double doors at the far end.

Quietly, he walks to the doors and opens them; the room inside is dark, the light from the sun outside filtered through colored stained glass. It's a chapel, he quickly realizes, the cross on the alter broken and the benches rotted and tossed aside by weather, animals, and age.

To his left he hears the sound again, a low, breathy sort of rumble, and he turns to look. Against the far wall, Envy is huddled, his long, serpentine body curled and coiled around itself as a buffer against the cool air. He faces the alter like a man at worship, his eyes heavy-lidded as if he hovers somewhere between prayer and irreverence.

_We're already damned, the two fallen sons, cast out of Heaven, the perfect sin and the perfect sinner..._

Envy does not look over to him as Edward picks his way past the benches and a few scattered candles and bits of rock and dirty and wood that nature has brought into the unused chapel. It's not until Edward puts his hand on the cool scales of his companion, his mate, that the homonculus turns its gaze to him.

_It's almost painful; words were never really necessary with Al, either._

Envy does not offer an explanation to his absence at Edward's arrival, nor as to why he is hidden in the chapel, nor why he does not change shapes. He watches Edward with a tiredly wary expression, watching, waiting for something that Edward will not say or do. Edward is silent, his mind sketching a path along the array lines his thoughts follow, finding its way around to what the silence from Envy is saying.

He is out of red stones. Shifting would be a death sentence.

Edward knows that Envy expects him to leave now- Envy has been afraid to not expect it, Edward could feel that. Experience was a harsh mistress.

Without a word, Edward steps in front of him and rubs his snout lightly. "The front room is warmer," he says quietly. "I've got a fire going already."

_If he were killing himself, so be it._

Envy's eyes close heavily at the words, and Edward for a moment wonders if it was a safe decision to step so close to the homunculus's jaws, but slowly, Envy begins to uncurl himself to follow Edward. "You gonna move so I can get out, Shorty?" the homunculus snaps, the traces of their comfortable and familiar banter in his tone.

Edward steps aside. "What, you can't go around?"

_He'd picked his poison._


End file.
